


A Will and a Way

by Mount_Seleya



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Loss, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin makes a vow knowing she must break it; Chrom is left to deal with the aftermath. Main timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Necessity

Robin dimly hears the squeak of Chrom's gloves over the distant roil of Origin Peak as he seizes her shoulders. It's the wild, desperate grip of a drowning man, clinging to the last solid thing in a torrent of uncertainty.  
  
"Promise me, Robin," he demands, pinning her with a narrowed gaze. "Promise me you won’t sacrifice yourself!"  
  
The answer in her head is as hard and clear as diamond; she feels it perched on the tip of her desert-dry tongue. _You're putting your wife above the future of your people,_ she wants to hiss at him. _I've thought this through and I'm the piece that must be sacrificed to win the game._  
  
But the raw emotion in Chrom's eyes makes her heart ache. Instead, she says, "You're right. We'll find another way."  
  
Behind her husband's back, Robin can see Naga looking at her, and knows that the divine dragon's sight extends into the deepest depths of her soul, where her intent remains unchanged despite her hollow reassurances.

 

* * *

 

While the camp settles down to its last, fitful night, Robin and Chrom convene in their tent to discuss strategy. Perhaps inevitably, tension turns to temper turns to passion, and Robin finds herself being pushed back on top of her hastily-drawn battle plan, her breeches dangling off of her right ankle as she hooks both legs around Chrom's waist.

The rhythm Chrom sets is rough and urgent. Like he's trying to use his body to convey to her an intensity of feeling that defies language, only now there isn't enough time for him to do so in the slow, gentle manner she knows he favours.  
  
"Promise me," he murmurs into her ear between sharp, staccato breaths.  
  
 _Don't make this harder for me,_ Robin wants to tell him. But instead she just gasps his name and arches up off of the desk, tightening the circle of her legs around him as she tangles her fingers in his thick, sweat-damp hair.  
  
All too soon, it’s over, and she's left to sort out her pants as he tucks himself away and smooths down his tunic-front. The space between them suddenly seems a cold, vast waste, too wide to be bridged by a lone moment.  
  
Chrom closes the gulf with a single step. Taking her face in his hands, he quietly confesses, "I need you, Robin. When we face Grima tomorrow and... _after_. I don't think I could ever bear to be parted from you."  
  
"You'd live," she answers in a tired, matter-of-fact tone.  
  
"I would _survive_ ," he counters effortlessly. "We would survive — our little Lucina and I."  
  
The words hit Robin like a physical blow. She momentarily averts her eyes from the penetrating blue of Chrom's gaze, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as her fingers idly fumble with the dusty, travel-worn skirt of her robe.  
  
Chrom abruptly pulls her into an embrace. "I know what you're thinking," he says, an unmistakable catch in his voice. "But there's another way. We'll find it. I can't lose you like I lost Emm. _Please._ Promise me you won't do it."  
  
Face buried against her husband's chest, Robin squeezes her eyes shut and swallows dryly, clutching fistfuls of his cape as she summons the willpower to once again utter the untruth she knows he needs to hear.  
  
"We'll come through this together, Chrom," she tells him. "Don't worry."  
  
Somehow, without Naga's soul-probing eyes offering her silent absolution, the lie seems all the more terrible.

 

* * *

 

Ink stains limn Robin's fingernails as she opens the flaps of the tent and steps into the sanguine light of early dawn. She casts a parting glance over her shoulder at the sleeping form of her husband. One of his arms reaches over into her now-empty side of the cot, his fingers grasping at the still-warm blanket, searching.  
  
 _You'll get used to it eventually,_ she thinks ruefully, letting the tent-flaps flutter shut behind her.  
  
As expected, she finds Frederick alone in the arms storage tent, dutifully carrying out a last-minute inventory.  
  
"Milady," the knight greets, giving her a brief, formal nod.  
  
"Might I have a word with you?" Robin asks.  
  
"Of course," he returns, setting the silver sword in his hand back on the rack as she walks over toward him.  
  
Robin draws a deep breath. She allows her gaze to drift over to a pile of splintered lance-shafts in the corner of the tent, while Frederick waits silently before her, ready and attentive, his hands clasped behind his ramrod-straight back.  
  
"Do you recall how you were initially wary of me when the Shepherds chanced upon me?" she finally broaches.  
  
A furrow forms between Frederick's brows. "Milady," he says again in a careful, measured tone. "You must understand that my foremost concern at the time was ensuring the prince's safety."  
  
"I'm not reproaching you," Robin quickly clarifies. "I just find it a notable point of contrast between you and Chrom."  
  
"May I ask what you mean?" the knight inquires.  
  
"You're always so cautious, whereas Chrom tends to trust others implicitly," she replies. "He has such a big heart. And, in some ways, it's both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness."  
  
Frederick shifts slightly, drawing a series of small, almost musical clanks from his armour. "Milady?"  
  
Reaching into her robe, Robin pulls out a small, twine-bound bundle of envelopes. "My last wish is to break the heart of someone so dear to my own," she says quietly, feeling the prickle of tears in the corners of her eyes. "But the life of one woman and the happiness of one man are a tiny price to pay to ensure the safety of generations to come."  
  
Something like alarm briefly flickers across Frederick's stoic countenance. "Chrom thinks it is, as do I," he says.  
  
"My mind is already set, Frederick," Robin says, shaking her head as she holds the letters out to him. "Please see that these reach my husband and children when I'm — when all is said and done."  
  
"If that is your will, milady, I am duty-bound to comply," Frederick states flatly, taking the letters from her.  
  
"I'm not giving you an order as a servant of House Ylisse, but asking a favour of you as a friend," Robin replies.  
  
With a grim nod, Frederick reaches under his breastplate, stashing the letters in the brown vest he's wearing below


	2. Queen Sacrifice

Chrom's oxygen-starved lungs burn as he rushes toward Robin in a blind panic. The small, contrite smile on her lips doesn't falter, even though her entire body is wavering like a heat-haze on the horizon.  
  
"Robin!" he bellows over the roar of the high-altitude wind. "Ah, gods! No!"  
  
He reaches her just in time to feel his grasping fingers close around the solid flesh of her left forearm for an instant. Then there is nothing but her empty sleeve in his hand and the sound of her robe whipping about in the wind.  
  
Suddenly, Grima's back lurches from underneath his feet violently, and he plunges Falchion into the dragon’s hide to keep from being thrown off as the beast's dead bulk plummets to the ground with an earth-shaking crash.  
  
Afterward, Chrom remains on his knees, clinging to Falchion's grip with one hand and Robin's robe with the other. The dust in the air slowly clears to reveal the blood-red disc of the setting sun hanging low in the sky and the contorted length of Grima's great neck sprawled across a shattered brown hillside.  
  
In his mind, Chrom is aware that he is alive and largely unscathed, yet he cannot help feeling like there is now only half a heart beating in his breast and half a soul inhabiting the tender, secret spaces within its depths.  
  
Squeezing his eyes shut, he sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. The dry air burns his throat. His mind abruptly carries him back in time two years, to the memory of falling to his knees at the foot of a precipice, and a sense of anguish and helplessness he'd begged all the gods whose names were known to him he'd never have to feel again.  
  
Anger and betrayal come crashing in to join the maelstrom of emotions wracking his heart. Opening his eyes, he briefly tightens his grip on Robin's sleeve, then lets it go and proceeds to pull her glove out of it. He locates a small, hard shape stuck inside of the glove's index finger, working it down until it lands in his waiting palm.  
  
The silver ring catches the waning light of the sun. _You lied to me,_ he thinks, and at last he releases a choking sob.

 

* * *

 

The leaping bonfire licks at the star-strewn sky, suffusing the tired, aching bodies ringed around it with warmth. But there's a pall hanging over the victory celebration, a gap in the circle that cannot be forgotten no matter how many kegs of mead and ale Sully rolls out or how many loud, bawdy drinking songs she leads.  
  
Since Morgan drifted away, it's taken all of Chrom's fortitude to stay rooted to his spot with a stoic, princely smile.  
  
Despite his efforts to put on the brave face his station demands, however, the company seems to sense just how heavily it weighs upon his heart to know he'll be the only one of their number retiring to bed alone tonight.  
  
They flit around him like moths about a torch, touching, offering him comfort and support: Vaike giving him a brotherly fist-bump, Libra laying a gentle hand on his shoulder and reciting a quiet prayer, Tharja pressing up against him like a tumour growing out of his side, as if she might absorb some lingering trace of his wife.  
  
It would be unseemly under any other circumstances, so many hands upon a soon-to-be-exalt, but he accepts the attention in the spirit it's given, though he wants nothing more than to find some space to process everything he's feeling.  
  
Finally, he hears the clank of armour approaching him from behind, and turns to see Frederick looking down at him.  
  
"Go to your son, milord," the knight says quietly. "You have already given your people enough for one day."  
  
Chrom rises to his feet and gives Frederick a grateful nod. Then he treks through the camp until he reaches Morgan's tent, the small, pale-blue royal pennant that serves as its mark sagging limply in the spiritless breeze. The guards standing on either side of the tent's entrance nod their heads respectfully as he pushes his way inside.  
  
He finds Morgan sobbing into his pillow. As he walks over toward the cot, the young man sits up stiffly, wiping his tear-slick face on the sleeve of his robe before tilting his red-rimmed eyes up to meet his father's.  
  
"I'm sorry, Father," he says between sniffles. "I know I shouldn't have just disappeared like that."  
  
Sitting on the edge of the cot, Chrom sighs, his shoulders falling guiltily. "I shouldn't have tarried out there so long."  
  
Morgan's face suddenly crumples. "I — she's — I can't believe..." he stammers.  
  
Leaning forward, Chrom pulls Morgan into a hug, letting the strength in his arms express what his tongue cannot.

 

* * *

 

Frederick enters Chrom's tent early the following morning and sets a letter on the corner of the desk nearest his cot. The plan Robin drew for the final battle is still spread out at the desk's centre, crinkled and stained tellingly, and Chrom absently wonders to himself if it would have been prudent of him to move it out of sight.  
  
"Robin asked that I deliver this to you in the wake of the fell dragon's defeat, milord," the knight explains.  
  
It takes a moment for the full meaning of the words to gel in Chrom's mind. Eyes narrowing, he says, "You _knew?_ "  
  
"Yes," Frederick answers cautiously. "I attempted to dissuade her, but her resolve was fixed."  
  
Chrom lets out a heavy sigh. His gaze falls to where his hands are resting upon the bedcovers. "Robin could seldom be swayed once her mind was settled on something," he remarks with a small, rueful smile.  
  
"Indeed," the knight concurs.  
  
Reaching over for the letter, Chrom adds fondly, "Her stubborn streak was a league wide."  
  
Frederick simply nods, then bows politely and withdraws from the tent, giving the prince his privacy.  
  
Chrom stares at the letter for a long time after Frederick's departure. He finds himself thumbing its seal, a colourless, lumpy blob of candle wax stamped with the signet of the ring he'd given Robin when they became formally engaged.  
  
Neither of them had known, back then, what their betrothal meant: when she'd pulled her gloves off before the royal council and held her left hand out to him, and he'd gotten down on one knee and slipped the ring onto her finger, so that she bore the crest of House Ylisse — the very mark of Naga herself — opposite the mark of Grima.  
  
 _She'll return,_ he thinks, feeling a sudden, inexplicable certainty fill his heart. _Her bonds with us were bonds she chose._


	3. Waiting

Tiny hands bat restlessly at the steel pauldron on Chrom's shoulder. Tilting a gentle smile down at the upturned, beaming face of the little girl in his arms, he says, "I'll only be gone for the afternoon, sweetheart."  
  
Lucina abruptly mashes her palms against Chrom's left cheek. "Papa!" she squeals.  
  
"Papa goes searching every day, remember?" Chrom whispers.  
  
The little girl gapes up at him for a moment with a precociously serious look. Then her determined hands grasp the thin, silver chain around his neck, yanking at it until she pulls the ring at its end free from under his tunic.  
  
"Mama," she says, hoisting the ring up into the air so that it's dangling directly in front of his nose.  
  
Chrom exhales sharply. It's the first time Lucina has said the word; it pains him Robin couldn't be present to hear it. "Yes, my little treasure," he answers softly. "Papa and his friends are trying to find mama."  
  
He casts a glance at the small clutch of noble ladies gathered a few yards away in the sunlit courtyard: primped and clad in garish, ruffled finery as usual, hoping today is the day their widowed exalt will finally return a bachelor.  
  
"I will _never_ stop searching for your mother," Chrom says, loud enough to reach the ears of the courtiers.

 

* * *

  
Shielding his eyes against the blinding glare of the summer sun, Chrom watches with mounting impatience as Frederick methodically slashes a path down through the tall, tinder-dry grass covering the hillside.  
  
Chrom lets out a frustrated huff. "Is this truly necessary?" he mutters under his breath.  
  
Sumia turns a mollifying smile toward him from his side, one hand resting on the wide, drooping brim of her sun hat. "It is for him," she says. "I know he goes a bit overboard sometimes, but that's just his way, isn't it?"  
  
"Not that I don't appreciate his diligence," Chrom states. "I just fail to see any risk of grievous injury in grass."  
  
"Well, I think it's rather gallant of him," Sumia says with a wistful sigh. "Like something out of a classic romance. I mean, when we were courting, he'd practically carry me to my tent every evening because he feared I might fall."  
  
Chrom laughs softly. "Yes, I remember. It was nice getting to trod on pebbles again for a while whenever his attentions were on you."  
  
A minute of silence passes between them. "I know how much you miss her," Sumia says at last.  
  
Chrom allows his gaze to wander across the rolling contour of the horizon. "It's been over a year," he says quietly. "But I'll find her — I _know_ I will — even if I have to search every inch of every world."  
  
"And we'll be at your side every step of the way," Sumia promises. "Your story deserves a happy ending."

 

* * *

  
The circle of sky hanging above the clearing is the dull gray of a tarnished mirror. Closing his eyes, Chrom sucks in a lungful of cold, crisp air and tries to sense the presence of his wife in the caress of the wind against his cheek.  
  
He hears the whispering rustle of footsteps approaching through fallen leaves behind him. A moment later, he opens his eyes to see Cordelia standing at his side, the red of her hair stark against their toneless surroundings.  
  
"Do you want to rest for a while?" he asks with a weary smile.  
  
"I'm fine," she answers. "We should try to cover as much ground as we can before evening falls."  
  
There's something pinched and guarded in her expression that makes Chrom's heart seize. "Is something wrong?"  
  
Cordelia's eyes snap away from his abruptly. "I'm fine, sir, really," she assures him.  
  
Chrom releases a soft sigh that crystallizes in the air in front of his face. "You can tell me if you aren't," he says.  
  
Shaking her head, Cordelia reluctantly says, "It's just...sometimes I wonder if it might be better for you to...move on."  
  
"I — you — what do you mean?" Chrom stammers, his eyebrows drawing together in shock.  
  
"Only that that it pains me to see you in such a state, sir," Cordelia replies, absently twisting the ring on her left hand. "I wish things could be...different."  
  
"As do I," Chrom admits quietly, allowing his gaze to trail off toward the leaf-bare trees on the far side of the clearing. "I wish Robin had let me finish Grima. That's a selfish thought to have, isn't it? But I love her. I'll _always_ love her. And, somehow, I know that love is what's going to lead her home."  
  
When Chrom turns to look at Cordelia once more, he finds a small, fragile smile on her lips.  
  
"Come on, then," she says. "There's still a couple of hours of daylight left."

 

* * *

  
Wind batters the outside of the cabin, driving thick, white snowflakes against the windows with muted plinks. Pulling his quilt more tightly around his shoulders, Chrom allows a broad, paternal grin to spread across his face as he watches Morgan flip to the next page of the book laying in front of him on the frayed hearthrug.  
  
Suddenly, the kettle hanging over the fire starts whistling, and Chrom reaches over with his gloved hand to remove it.  
  
"Mother was always fond of winter," Morgan remarks, accepting the mug of tea his father proffers him a moment later. "I remember how much she loved taking Lucina and I skating on the pond in the castle gardens."  
  
"My parents loathed the season," Chrom responds, blowing on his own tea. "My father because the snow forced him to temporarily halt his bloody campaign against Plegia, and my mother because this meant he was around us more often."  
  
"Oh," Morgan says tentatively.  
  
"He brought us up here once," Chrom tells his son, indicating the cabin with a sweep of his free hand. "I accidentally dropped an armload of firewood in the snow, and when Emm stuck up for me, he sent us both to bed without supper."  
  
A minute passes, filled only with the fierce, bitter howl of the wind and the subdued crackling of the fire.  
  
"My father found it easier to hate than to love," Chrom says at last. "He thought of little beyond crushing the 'heathens' to the west, and believed that an exalt should be feared, by his children and his people alike."  
  
"You're nothing like that, Father," Morgan says. "I'm glad we're getting to bond like this."  
  
Chrom takes a long, hearty swig of tea, feeling its warmth seep down into his chest. "I want you to know you're not obligated to aid my search, or even to stay in Ylisse," he says, fingering the earthenware texture of his mug. "I'll understand if you wish to strike out on your own as your sister has done."  
  
"But I want to help you search," Morgan answers earnestly, his wide brown eyes meeting Chrom's. "Mother asked me to stay with you. In her letter, I mean. She said I may be the only son you'll ever have."


	4. Reunion

When Robin awakes, it's as if from a long, deep slumber. She stretches her legs to shake off the expected stiffness, but finds that her body feels lighter, somehow, like she's shucked a weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying. The kiss of sunlight on her face and the teasing tickle of grass under her calves are as revelations to her.  
  
Her eyes peel open slowly. Just like the first time, Chrom and Lissa are hovering over her, smiling.  
  
For an instant, Robin's heart clenches, and she fears that she has been thrust into the past. Then Chrom offers a hand to help her up, and she sees nothing but pure, unmarked skin on the back of the hand she reaches up to take it.  
  
 _Grima is gone,_ she realizes with a sudden surge of joy.  
  
"Welcome back," Chrom says, grasping her shoulders tightly as if to confirm that she is real. "It's over now."  
  
Robin lets out an elated squeak and throws her arms around him. The fabric of his tunic is smooth against her bare skin, warm from absorbed sunlight and the familiar, human heat radiating off of his body.  
  
"How long?" she whispers.  
  
Chrom plants a feather-soft kiss on her temple. "Two years," he says, his hands settling chastely between her shoulders. "I searched every day — _we_ searched every day — except when duty compelled otherwise."  
  
Robin's breath catches in her throat. "Lucina?" she asks.  
  
"Swiftly outgrowing every dress the royal tailors sew for her," Chrom answers warmly. "The other is happily settled."  
  
Robin pulls away from her husband reluctantly. He studies her face with undisguised adoration for a moment, then his brow furrows guiltily, and he hastily pulls off his cape and drapes it over her shoulders.  
  
"I told you we should've brought clothes," Lissa declares with a bubbling laugh.

 

* * *

 

The hours following Robin's return to the castle rush by in a frenetic blur of activity. She is given half an hour alone with her family — Lucina fidgets in her lap the whole time, as restless, curious two-year-olds are wont to do — before Frederick whisks her away to a private meeting chamber and proceeds to brief her on important developments.

"You are to address the crowd gathered outside the palace in an hour's time," the knight informs her. "Do not worry, milady, for I have seen to it that a suitably awe-inspiring speech has been prepared for you."  
  
Robin worries her lower lip to keep from voicing her ire. "Thank you, Frederick," she says stiffly.  
  
"It was no trouble at all," Frederick replies. "Now, following your speech, there shall be a banquet held in your honour in the Great Hall, after which Lord Brady shall treat us all to a rousing violin recital."  
  
"A _banquet?_ " Robin splutters in disbelief. "Frederick, I — I appreciate the thought, but it's...too much, too soon."  
  
"We have awaited your return for two years, milady. Are a few hours of your time too much to ask?"  
  
Robin lets out a defeated sigh. "No, I suppose not," she says.  
  
"Good," Frederick says. "Then I shall inform the portraitist you are available for a sitting first thing tomorrow morning."  
  
"Gods, Frederick," Robin says exasperatedly, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "I swear I'm marching straight down to the kitchens and telling the cooks to make sure they serve nothing but bear tonight!"

 

* * *

  
Kicking off her mules, Robin falls back onto the bed with a contented sigh, fingers digging into the thick down duvet. "We're finally alone together," she remarks in a low tone, quirking an eyebrow up at Chrom.  
  
The mattress dips gently as her husband sits down next to her. "So we are," he acknowledges quietly.  
  
With a sly smile, Robin pulls herself up onto her haunches, shuffling closer to Chrom. "I saw how you looked at me back in the field," she breathes into his ear, smoothing a hand down the front of his ceremonial coat. "I know you would've thrown me down and taken me right there on the grass had we been by ourselves."  
  
Chrom releases a sharp, strangled gasp, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain. "There's something we must discuss," he grits out, gripping her wrist gently and plucking her hand off of his chest.  
  
Robin can't help the wounded look that crosses her face as she draws away from Chrom. "Alright," she says. She folds her hands in her lap, her sweat-slick palms slipping against the sleek, spring-green taffeta of her ball gown.  
  
"My council was content to make the choice for you," Chrom tells her heavily. "To them, it's simply a matter of politics, but I knew that for you it would be... _personal_ , so I insisted the decision be yours and that I be the one to present it to you."  
  
Reaching a hand over, Robin strokes Chrom's arm, remembering how words sometimes come difficult to him.  
  
"I've always considered you my equal, in all ways," he continues. "I don't just see you as my consort, but as a co-ruler. And I could be yours as well, if you wish it, Robin. You're heir to your — to the Plegian throne."  
  
"I see," Robin says evenly.  
  
"You're known as the High Deliverer in Plegia," Chrom says. "They revere you for having freed them from Grima's bondage, and have been praying for your return, that you might lead them toward a brighter future. The council think this a gods-send from a diplomatic angle, but I realized you might not wish to inherit Validar's crown."  
  
"Did you think twice about claiming Ylisse's throne, though you knew it would be a great responsibility?" Robin asks.  
  
"No," Chrom answers with an immediacy that belies his conviction.  
  
"Then I see no reason to run away from the responsibility that's been given to me," Robin says.

 

* * *

  
By the watery light of early dawn, Chrom catalogues every perfectly imperfect inch of Robin's reborn body with his mouth, from the scar on her shoulder left by a grazing arrow to the softness on her lower abdomen left by pregnancy. When his hands settle on her hips, she instinctively parts her thighs, and he dips his head in between.  
  
Robin's eyelids flutter shut on a moan. Fingers meshing tightly in her husband's hair, she gasps, "Gods, Chrom, _yes_."  
  
Soon, her back is bowing off of bed, a high cry ripping from her throat as a wave of ecstasy crashes through her.  
  
Chrom pushes himself up into a sitting position, flashing a gentle, faintly cocky grin down at her. She looks up at him through hooded eyes and lifts a hand to stroke a sweaty lock of hair off of his forehead, noting sadly that their two years apart have left him with a few gray hairs scattered throughout his thick, cobalt mop.  
  
Then he falls backwards onto the bed, and his strong, firm hands clutch her waist and guide her to straddle him. She reflexively braces her palms flat in the centre of his torso, inadvertently touching the gnarled, silver burn scar there.  
  
Noting the stricken look on her face, he says, "You're why I survived, and my very reason for living, my love."  
  
They fit together like pieces of a long-unfinished puzzle. Slowly and gently, his hips rock up off of the mattress, every movement like corporal poetry, telling her all of the things his tongue lacks the eloquence to express.

 

* * *

  
Golden sunlight spills across the bed from the high windows lining the far wall of the royal bedchamber. Amidst the tangled, sweat-soaked sheets, Robin and Chrom lay side by side, their limbs still interlocked.  
  
"I'm supposed to be sitting a portrait right now," Robin remarks.  
  
"Mmm," Chrom hums indifferently, stroking his heel down the back of Robin's calf.  
  
"Frederick was quite insistent about it," Robin demurs.  
  
Nuzzling into the crook of her neck, Chrom replies, "Tell him you needed to attend to some important state business."  
  
Robin lets out a sharp gasp at the feel of Chrom's tongue flicking lazily along the shell of her ear. "Like what?"  
  
"You're the strategist," Chrom whispers. "I'm sure your capable mind can concoct a suitable fiction."  
  
"Then I'll tell him we spent all morning trying to produce another heir for the halidom," she says.  
  
Chrom lets out a soft chuckle. Pressing a hand against Robin's shoulder, he rolls her over on to her back, and she reflexively lets her knees fall open so that he can settle in between them and lose himself within her anew.

 

* * *

  
Robin runs the brush through her hair slowly. Standing behind the bench on which she is seated, Chrom meets her gaze in the glass of the vanity, his hands fastening the parallel rows of buttons on the front of his navy blue tunic.

When he's done, he sets a warm, gentle hand on her shoulder. "What was it like? Your...sabbatical?" he asks quietly.  
  
Robin lays the hairbrush down on the vanity. "It was like being asleep, I guess," she says. "I'd wake up sometimes to a sea of blackness, but it felt safe and nurturing, somehow, like I was floating in a womb. And then I'd feel this sort of... _force_ , tugging at my heart, and Naga would tell me, 'Not yet. Return to sleep, my child.'"  
  
"Robin, I..." Chrom falters. "I searched. I prayed. I never gave up hope once it was kindled within me."  
  
"I know," Robin answers, her beringed left hand flying up to cover her husband's right where it rests on her shoulder. "My ties with everyone I hold dear were what I felt calling me back to the world. Your love was strongest of all."  
  
With a tender smile, Chrom bends down, and Robin twists around, craning her head up to meet the press of his lips. The kiss is soft and lingering. When they at last part, they exchange a brief look, then Robin rises from the bench.  
  
Turning to look Chrom directly in the eyes, Robin draws a long, steadying breath. "I'm sorry for breaking my promise," she tells him earnestly, feeling a heaviness lift from her heart the instant the words are out of her mouth.  
  
Chrom swallows, making his Adam's apple bob, and fretfully adjusts the cuff of one of his gloves. "I'll admit I was angry, hurt, and lost for a time after your...departure, but those feelings quickly passed."  
  
"Frederick gave you my letter," Robin says, more of a statement than a question.  
  
"He did," Chrom confirms with a small nod.  
  
"Sorry it came out the way it did," she says, letting her eyes drift toward the sunlit greenery outside of the windows.  

Chrom brings a hand up to cover his mouth. He stands there for a moment, his brow furrowed with indecision as he watches his wife's eyes follow the soft, cottony clouds trailing slowly across the azure span of the sky. Then he walks over to the nightstand on his side of the bed, opens the drawer, and pulls something out.  
  
Returning to Robin's side, Chrom hands her an envelope inscribed with his name in her neat, looping script.  
  
It takes a few seconds for Robin's mind to register the fact that the makeshift wax seal is still unbroken. Jerking a questioning look up at her husband, she stammers, "This isn't — you didn't — _why?_ "  
  
"I wasn't going to let you say goodbye," Chrom says simply.

 

* * *

  
Sunlight cuts between the blossom-laden branches in diffuse shafts, casting Morgan's face in dappled shadows as he smiles and throws his arms around Robin with a flourish that sends the long, draping sleeves of his robe flapping. The heavy, rounded swell of her belly presses into him, making his embrace loose and awkward.  
  
"I'm going to miss you, Mother," Morgan whispers.  
  
"And I you, love," Robin returns gently.  
  
Morgan reluctantly pulls away from Robin, then turns toward Chrom, who places a supportive hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Are you sure you're up to serving as prince regent in your mother's absence?" Chrom asks.  
  
"The council I've appointed is more than capable of overseeing matters for the time being," Robin adds.  
  
Morgan gives his parents a nod. "I want to help out, and I know I'm up to the challenge," he says with a sheepish grin. "Though I can't deny I've got a tiny bit of self-interest in taking Plegia off your hands for a while, Mother."  
  
Robin's hand unconsciously settles atop her abdomen. "Indeed,” she say warmly. "I know you'll do us proud."  
  
With a broad, toothy smile and a parting wave, Morgan turns and walks down the tree-lined drive to the waiting carriage. Chrom reaches for Robin's hand, meshing their fingers together, and silently they watch as the carriage rolls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This game, it seems, is determined to repeatedly kick me in the feels and inspire me to write angst-ridden fic.
> 
> I personally consider the canonicity of the SpotPass paralogues to be open to interpretation. This is the reason I chose not to feature Emmeryn in the story: I think Chrom's temporary loss of Robin is more poignant if his loss of his sister is permanent.
> 
> Irrelevant personal headcanon:
> 
> -I know that a Japanese artbook has recently surfaced that reveals Chrom is supposed to be six years younger than Emmeryn, but that means he would've been around only four when their father died, which, in my eyes, is too young for him to personally remember their father's war as he tells Robin he does in Chapter 6 of the game. Which is why I see Chrom as being only a couple of years younger than Emmeryn and write him that way.
> 
> -Chrom's father and Validar are two sides of the same coin, and would've been BFFs under different circumstances. I'd love to read a fic exploring this scenario, but I'm probably not ambitious enough to tackle it myself.


End file.
